Pie and Personal Introspection
by Fyndabhair
Summary: Castiel contemplates the state of things over pie.
1. Chapter 1

Castiel prods at the slice of pie sitting in front of him. It is necessary for his body to take in food, but he never particularly expected to enjoy it, or choose meals because they were something HE liked. Castiel doesn't even choose foods because Jimmy can remember enjoying them. He hasn't been able to feel Jimmy's presence at all for a very long time, something he hasn't told the Winchesters. Especially not Dean.

Delicately (forks occasionally rebel) he slips another piece of pie and enjoys all the different components that compose something greater than themselves, and tastier. The thought of the Winchester brothers fills him with what, if he had the word, he would label as unease. That they do not know he has entirely consumed Jimmy is...not problematic. He wonders what they would say if they knew that this form is utterly Castiel's now, that for the first time he is trying to actually work the body rather than just operating as a puppeteer. He wonders if Dean would consider it murder.

Does HE consider it murder?

He is one of the fallen now, could it be that his consumption of Jimmy wasn't just a natural progression of a vessel? Is that why he can't find his Father? Because now he is no longer one of the heavenly host, now he is tarnished, a fallen angel no different from his brothers.

"Dude, you know your face is gonna stay that way if you aren't careful." Dean slumps into the chair opposite him, drapes an arm over the back of the chair and grins.

"I did not sense another of the antichrist here, Dean." Castiel would really rather not almost stab a child to death, or be turned into a plastic idol. It was highly uncomfortable.

Dean laughs, and steals part of the pie's crust. Castiel would grin back, but he is too distracted by considering just how this human across from him can affect so many things simply by existing. Not just the world, but Castiel himself. He sacrificed so much for the sake of this man, and feels a strange plummeting sensation whenever the possibility arises that something might happen to Dean, or worse, to their companionship. For some reason, the thought of Dean continuing to exist without him is...unsettling.

"Cas..." Dean's eyebrows furrow and it takes Castiel a moment to differentiate between 'annoyed face' and 'concerned face'. The differences between them can be frustratingly minute. "You okay man?"

"I am...fine." There is a pause as he tilts his head to the side in concentration, before digging back into his sadly neglected partially mauled pie. He is fine. There is pie, and for now there is Dean, and that strange feeling of being in a vice has vanished. For now, things are good.


	2. Chapter 2

There are few things that legitimately concern Dean these days. Sam, Bobby, the impending Armageddon and all its associated worries, and Castiel. That last one throws him for a loop, because he isn't really sure when Cas got up there with Sam and Bobby. He worries about Castiel, which is ridiculous. The man is an angel, no matter what those dicks upstairs think, and is frighteningly capable fighter. He really shouldn't be worried about Castiel.

The only problem is that he does. He notices when Castiel (Jimmy, really, but Dean doesn't particularly care, which is goddamn weird as well) looks ill, or unhappy or when ANY negative emotion manages to cross Castiel's face. Because Castiel's voice is about as somber as a priest's suit, and can make anything sound like a pronouncement of complete doom, Dean has to rely on the little visual clues Castiel offers him.

Sometimes he thinks its like trying to read braille without your fingers.

Nonetheless, Castiel looks concerned, and this concerns Dean. Especially when Castiel completely denies it, which is new. It isnt like he can just pester him about it, or use any of the tactics that work on Sam because Castiel won't pick up on half of them, and outright pressuring the guy feels...presumptuous. Like Dean has some kind of right to the inner workings of Castiel. They're friends, Dean knows this, and Cas might be the best friend he's ever had which is goddamn depressing if he thinks about it. Feelings are simply not his strong suit, and he worries that maybe if he asked, he wouldn't be able to help.

Munching on the bit of pie he's stolen from Castiel, Dean beckons the waitress and gets a fresh slice for himself, sending the angel an inquisitive look, before just outright asking if he would enjoy more pie.

Why needing more pie deserves the quizzical face bewilders Dean, but Castiel nods quickly and Dean orders them both more apple pie.

Dean is flipping through the channels for about the thousandth time, wondering where the hell Sammy is when something foul assaults his nose.

The Smell. It deserves the capital letter Dean gives it in his head because for a moment, his brain ceases to function. Nothing has tried to kill him yet, so it isn't demons, despite the mildly sulfuric scent. The Smell is how Dean rationalizes there no longer being a God. There is no way He would ever allow such a travesty to assault the nasal passages of mankind.

Sam hasn't spoken yet, and he didn't hear the door open, so it's highly unlikely Sammy snuck a burrito on his trip to the store. Dean shudders. THAT scent, he knows unfortunately intimately.

"Dean" Oh. Dear. God.

There is definetely no God. Dean was positive before, but now he is SUPREMELY certain of that fact because no angel ought to smell so foully.

"Jesus H. Christ, Cas." The Smell continues it's unholy siege against his nose and Dean cannot comprehend how Castiel managed to go so long without bathing. "Dude, you smell like a ghoul's breakfast. Seriously."

Tilting his head to the side, Castiel Looks at him, and Dean swears he sees an expression cross his face, a _sad, lost _one that really shouldn't be on the face of anyone, let alone a particularly pungent angel of the Lord.

"Lemme guess, the concept of showers are foreign to you, right? Christ, man..." Dean wrinkles his nose, and rummages through his bag to find something angel appropriate. Not like there's much variety- dark blue tshirt, dark green tshirt, jeans, jeans...LIGHT blue tshirt that must be Sam's because it's gargantuan and pastel...Snatching up a pair of jeans and the dark blue t shirt, Dean chucks them on the counter of the cheap little motel bathroom and beckons the angel in.

"Okay, I'm not gonna wash your back for you. This is soap. Rub it around till there's a lather and rinse. The stuff in this bottle is for your hair, and this stuff goes on after that. Rinse first, man." Pulling a towel off the rack, Dean leaves Castiel to inspect the subtle differences between the bottle of soap, the bottle of shampoo, and the bottle of conditioner.

The rush of water leaves him assured that there are some human things Castiel can work out for himself, and he settles onto the bed again, wondering whether he's going to have to teach the angel about laundry as well.

Castiel is not enjoying his shower. Nor did he enjoy having Dean explain the minutiae involved in showering as if he were a child. He is an angel of the Lord, and while he may not have had a body to wash he has certainly been able to observe the ritual of bathing over the millenia. He enjoyed the stench emanating from his, _the vessel's _body either but perversely kept putting off cleaning himself with a thought after the first time failed.

He knows this is just one more part of his slow descent, this shower is symbolic. The first Seal of Castiel's connection to the Host shattering like glass. As was his reluctance to go through the act alone, an oddly... non angelic emotion. He didn't want to go through this alone, to find an empty shower and get back into grimy, torn clothes reeking of constant wear.

Castiel stays in the shower until the vessel's skin wrinkles, and he can hear noises that indicate the younger Winchester is back from wherever he'd gone. Stepping out into the steamy air of the bathroom, he grimaces at the ratty towel left for him, and dries himself quickly, still slightly damp when he wrestles himself into Dean's clothing. Part of the difficulty, he knows, is that he keeps pausing to let sensations wash over him, something that is not particularly helpful when attempting to dress. The feel of denim makes him stop, one leg in, and he trips over the slightly too long fabric when trying to get the other leg where it's supposed to be. His face slowly appears in the fogged up mirror, Castiel looks away before more than a blurry reflection of the vessel's eyes can manifest.

Dean is beginning to be slightly panicked when Castiel's first shower goes longer than fifteen minutes and starts into thirty minutes. There is no way the angel was THAT dirty, or that inept. Showering is a pretty basic human action, much less complex than laundry, which is why all Dean's clothes are from the same group of colours.

Sam is back from his shopping spree by the time Castiel finally emerges from the bathroom, and the look the angel gets is HILARIOUS to Dean. Castiel, angel of the Lord has showered, and the look on HIS face makes it seem as if that shower was in fact The Shower of Doom, filled with the Soap of Satan, and other such horrible ordeals.

Shaking his head, Dean beckons the angel over as Sam goes back to concentrating on whatever arcane doohicky he's discovered, and probably hoping that when he looks back up Castiel won't still be imitating a drowned kitten.

"Seriously man, you need a shower that badly, come use ours. Never, ever...dude, there aren't even words in English for how gross that was."

Castiel just blinks slowly, a serious (surprise) expression on his face, and steals a french fry from Dean's plate.


End file.
